She tapped some more, chewing the inside of her mouth and chuckling to herself. Head in a constant shake from left to right.
‘In the pages that follow I do not propose that we destroy the gods or liquidise the so-called supernatural realm. How can we, when statistics tell us that transcendent faith continues to grow across the globe? My suggestion is rather more simple than that. Let us study believers with enthusiasm, let us reflect on them, let us even learn from them, and yes … let’s put a stop to the truly crazy ones. But let us accept that we, like them, are believers too, in frameworks that may not really be there. And let us recognise that the gods, the ghosts, the fates, the angels, the rights, the wrongs, the so-called order in the universe are little more than symptoms of our chronic case of apophenia. The gods are everything we’re not, that tell us everything we are. They aren’t our creators, they’re our reflections. They are us. They are psychological and social helpers, made lovingly and comprehensively … in our image.’
Matt swallowed. He looked up and folded the book softly over, leaning back from the microphone. ‘Er … that’s it,’ he said. ‘Prologue.’
The lecture hall crackled into applause and the main lights came up a little. He ran his eyes up the crowd. The Charles Fox lecture room had a steep slope of tiered seating, so he could see all the stacked rows of faces staring at him, flapping their hands together. His students filled a sizeable chunk of the fold-down chairs. They’d all sat together, like a tribe. He saw many matching hipster beards and man-buns. He’d had a good crop this year, some proper deep thinkers with a surprisingly low quota of religious fundamentalists giving him hassle this term.
There were other lecturers from the uni, scattered midway back. Some applauded more vigorously than others. More than a few were checking their watch to see when the free booze was getting wheeled out.
But the ones he really wanted to see were sitting on the front row. Lined up like the proverbial eager beavers. His seven-year-old Amelia was jabbing a finger at her bright-pink kids’ camera. She’d promised to film the evening for him, even though the publishers had a professional cameraman brought in especially. She caught his eye and stuck up a thumb. ‘Got it!’ she mouthed. Looking proud and part of it all.
His eldest, Lucy, wasn’t clapping, but she was looking around the room at everybody else doing it. She seemed really quite surprised at the enthusiasm. And Wren … his wife. She was holding up a glass of champagne that she’d snagged from somewhere. She raised it in his direction and winked at him, tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear.
I’m proud of you, she mouthed slowly. Then took a gulp.
Beth from the publishers suddenly sprang up onstage and grabbed the lectern. The applause died down.
‘Thank you so much for attending this reading tonight. In Our Image: The Gods We Tend to Invent is out in shops and online tomorrow but of course you can buy copies here tonight. And don’t forget to catch Professor Hunter here tomorrow at twelve, at the Haddon Charity lunch. He’ll be sharing some more from the book and signing again. But for now … we’d like to open it up to the floor. So … do we have any questions?’
It wasn’t hard to spot where the press were sitting. A clump of hands shot up, all in the same two rows, and the highest belonged to the pissed-off woman with the big collar and tiny laptop.
Now the lights were up he saw that the jacket she was wearing was black leather, and she had a leopard skin scarf, tied round her throat, crazy tight. ‘Chloe, go ahead.’
‘Thanks … Chloe Reynolds, Daily Mail …’ She sprang to her feet and held up a gizmo that looked more like a taser than a recorder. Its red light was flashing. ‘Professor. I understand your book was originally aimed at academic circles?’
He smiled. ‘My usual crowd, yes.’
‘Yet your publishers urged you to widen the audience. In fact, they sped up the release of this and greatly increased the marketing budget in the last few months. Why the manic rush to get this book out?’
‘Well … clearly it’s an amazing piece of work …’
A few titters from the audience. A snort laugh from Amelia. But eyes of stone from Chloe.
‘But speaking more seriously,’ Matt said. ‘Each day science is demystifying the universe so you’d expect belief in gods and the supernatural to diminish, but it isn’t. On a global scale it’s actually growing. And the divisions between faith groups are expanding too. We’re seeing dangerous chasms open up. Frankly, it’s a crucial and volatile time in our religious, cultural history which I—’
‘But that’s not why they’ve bumped your book up is it? The book’s subject is a side reason.’
He frowned. ‘Actually the book’s subject is kind of the whole poin—’
‘No. They’re printing more copies of your book because of you.’
He waited. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’
‘Your own personal profile. It’s risen since the summer. The Hobbs Hill serial killer, I mean.’ She pushed her recorder forwards. He noticed many of the faces in the room moving in the same direction. Heads zooming in for a close-up. ‘Your stepdaughter was almost his final victim but you managed to talk him down. You were instrumental in tracking down the killer. Do you reflect on that case in your book?’
He shot a quick look at his family. Wren was reaching over and grabbing Lucy’s hand. Lucy shrugged and gave an it’s fine, really smile.
